Vita Perseverat
by Realmer06
Summary: Pieces Universe. Once a year, she watches their memories, and she relives those short few weeks of her life, when she and a boy still waiting to become himself were thrown together and beat the odds and fought a war and fell in love. Warning: character death.


Written for the HPFC's First Love Challenge and the HPFC's Dying Breath Challenge.

Written for Heidi, for her birthday.

As evidenced by the challenges this fulfills, this is a sad piece. You are warned for character death.

I do not own Luna or Dean or Shell Cottage or anything else you might recognize.

* * *

_Vita Perseverat_

She is haunted by graveyards. She is drawn to them, like a Humdinger to flame, to the rows of weathered stones and the quiet, still air that hangs around them. She is drawn to the stories and the memories she knows linger for any who know how to find them.

She has been this way since the war. As she tells those who ask, the stories and memories of the dead are just as important as those of the living, and they deserve to know that someone is listening and remembering, even if that someone is only her.

She calls it memory hunting, and on a bright spring day, she can be found wandering between rows of graves, her fingers skimming the tops of the stones as she walks slowly by, soaking up the atmosphere. A young white-blond boy is with her, maybe seven. He skips by her side, sometimes darting ahead to trace the etching on another stone before running back to report on what he sees. She smiles at the information he relays, lovingly, if a bit sadly.

At the end of the row, he stops in front of a simple stone of gray granite before turning and yelling back, "Mummy! This one has Latin on it!" She is by his side soon enough. "Vita . . . perseverat," the boy reads slowly, tracing the words with a finger. "What's it mean, Mummy?" he asks, craning his neck around to look up at her.

Her hand tightens on his shoulder. "Life continues," she says softly.

"What does _that_ mean?" he asks. She takes a deep breath.

"It means that even once we die, if we have left our memories and stories behind, we live on."

"Do you believe that, Mummy?"

She raises a hand to the vial hanging from her neck. "I do," she tells her son. Then his father, waiting at the road with another white-blond boy, calls out to him. Without complaint, the boy heads back, and she shares one long look with her husband, a silent thanks.

Softly, gently, she lowers herself onto the grass in front of the stone. She pulls her wand from behind her ear and her necklace from around her head. Conjuring a shallow stone bowl, she empties the vial into it. Setting it on the ground in front of her, she does as her son did only moments before and reaches forward to trace the words engraved on the stone.

Dean Thomas

June 11, 1980 - May 2, 1998

"Vita Perseverat"

"Hello, Dean," Luna whispers before reaching forward and plunging her hands into the memories he entrusted to her years before. And she remembers.

000

The room was dark and dank, and he'd been shoved in roughly through a barely opened door. He'd hit his head on the way down, and now lay sprawled with his face pressed against the gritty floor, the goblin who'd been tied to him tangled in his feet. _He_ managed to extricate himself and retreat to a corner. Dean Thomas was not so fortunate.

"Don't try to sit up right away." Ignoring or not hearing the voice, Dean tried to push himself up, gave a loud groan of pain halfway through the effort, and fell back to the dirt-covered stone. "I did warn you," the voice said again, apologetic.

"Who are you?" he groaned. "What is this place?"

"It's a dungeon," the voice said. "Though I'm not sure it was originally intended to be one. It seems more like it was meant to be a wine cellar. But whatever it started out as, it's a dungeon now."

"Luna?" he asked then. "Luna Lovegood?"

"Yes," Luna said simply. "Dean Thomas."

"Yeah." He moved slower this time, pushing himself onto his elbows and making sure he was steady before he moved any higher. Finally, he was more or less upright, needing the wall behind him to keep him so, but vertical all the same. "How long have you been here?" he asked then, eyes closed as he leaned his head back against the wall.

"I'm not sure," she said lightly. "Since Christmas."

His eyes flew open and he peered through the darkness. "_Christmas_?" he repeated. "You've been here _three months_?"

"I suppose. But it could have been worse," she said quickly, as he opened his mouth to protest in anger. "Mr. Ollivander has been here far longer."

"Mr. Ollivander?" he asked, craning his head toward her voice. Somewhere there had to be a window or an opening because the darkness was not quite as thick as it had been at first, and he could just make out the outline of another body near Luna. "The wandmaker?"

"Yes," she said. "He's asleep now. I think –" Her voice faltered for the first time. "I think he's not doing well." There was sadness and mild fear in her voice, and it seemed to spur Dean into action.

"We're going to make it out of here," he said fiercely, clenching his hands into fists. "We were brought in with Harry and Ron and Hermione. They're upstairs still, but they _know_ we're here, they _know_ we got taken away. Harry'll find a way. If anyone can, it's him. We're _going_ to make it out of here alive." His words hung in the air between them.

"Yes," she said, softly. "Yes, I believe you're right. I believe we will." Through the darkness, he stared at her.

"You – you do?" he asked, his voice halting.

"Don't you?"

"I –" He stopped, clearly unsure how to answer.

"Or were you saying that to try and convince yourself?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said weakly.

"Well," she said brightly, "I've found that if you skip over trying to _make_ yourself believe something and just believe it straightaway, it's much easier in the end."

Dean closed his eyes and slumped against the wall with a sigh. "And how do you do that?" he asked wearily. "How do you believe something without having any doubts?"

"You just do," she said, as if that should have been the most obvious answer. Dean gave a short breathy laugh that held no humor.

"And this is how you've survived for three months, I suppose," he said, his tone sardonic.

"No," she said simply. "I've survived the past three months no differently than I've survived the rest of my life. I've just lived on to the next moment. It's what we all do, really. Most of the time it's so easy we don't even think of it. It's only when things get difficult that we begin to doubt our ability to do so. But if we just keep living on, we will have no trouble surviving. In the end, it usually isn't a matter of whether we _can_ live on. It's a matter of whether or not we _think_ we can."

Dean opened his mouth to try and form some sort of reply, but then the rough door opened and two more figures were shoved inside**. . . . **

The scene shifted to show Luna standing in front of a large tree, looking down at a white stone on the ground. _Here lies Dobby, a Free Elf_, the stone read. Dean stood a few paces behind her, clearly debating whether or not to interrupt her solitude. While he made his decision, he watched her.

She was dressed in clothes that did not entirely suit her, a faded blue robe that didn't quite fit. Her long blonde hair, still slightly damp from its earlier washing, was whipping around her face, carried by the wind, but she didn't seem to notice. Her face had a thin, hollowed out look, and she was squinting slightly as though the light hurt her eyes.

"Did you know him?" Dean finally asked. She didn't turn to look at him; she just shook her head.

"No," she said. "But I didn't have to. You don't need to know a Flying Caldwell personally to know what he does is noble."

Dean looked mildly perplexed at this comparison. "And . . . what does a Flying Caldwell do, exactly?" he asked.

"They hold vigil in the night sky, keeping us safe from Heliopaths." Dean did not inquire further. Luna turned and beheld him with her wide, pale eyes. Finally she spoke. "I want to thank you," she said. Dean looked completely taken aback.

"For what?" he asked. "I didn't do anything except get captured." She just smiled.

"I want to thank you," she repeated, then turned and walked away from him. He watched her go, shaking his head in bewilderment**. . . .**

The scene faded to reveal Dean seated in a deep window seat in someone's study, staring out at the land surrounding Shell Cottage. He was caught up in his thoughts, frowning, and didn't notice that Luna stood in the doorway until she spoke.

"Is it hard for you to be here?" she asked. Dean jumped and whirled, eyes wide, hand grasping for a wand that wasn't there.

"_Jesus_, Luna!" seemed to be all he could say as he held a hand to his chest. Luna tilted her head to one side.

"Did I startle you?" she asked calmly. Dean stared at her, breathing hard. She waited patiently for an answer.

"I— not really," he finally said. "I'm— a little jumpy. Being on the run," he said in halting fragments. Then he sighed. "I don't like being without my wand," he said, leaning carefully against the wall once more.

"I understand," she said sincerely, and he glanced at her, his eyes lingering on her unornamented left ear.

"Did you— need something?" he asked awkwardly.

"No," she said calmly. "I'm just trying to stay out of the way. We make the cottage smaller than it should be." Dean nodded slowly.

"I— you asked me something?" It wasn't really a question, but he looked as if he didn't really know what else to say.

"I asked if it was hard for you to be here," she repeated.

"I— why would it be?" he asked, confused. "Better than hiding out in forests or being shut up in— "

"Because of Ginny," Luna interrupted. Dean stopped talking immediately. "Because this is her brother's house and Harry's here, and— "

"I don't want to talk about Ginny," Dean said in a hollow kind of voice, turning firmly away from her.

Luna watched him with a considering sort of gaze, but moments later, it was gone. Without a word, she left the room. A second or two after her exit, Dean turned to the doorway, as if he'd heard something, but no one was there. He frowned, looking slightly sad. Slowly, with a sigh, he turned back to the window, lost in his thoughts. Suddenly, he straightened, focusing on something outside.

Luna had exited the cottage and stood in the wild tangle of a garden. As Dean looked out at her, she, unaware of his attention, bent gracefully to pull a spray of roses gently to her. She buried her face in them, closing her eyes as she inhaled deeply. Unconsciously, Dean inhaled with her. He watched as she wandered slowly and lovingly through the garden, her fingertips skimming over the tops of flowers just beginning to bloom.

In one swift movement, he stood and crossed purposefully to the desk against the far wall. After a few moments' rummaging through its drawers, he returned to the window, paper and quill in hand.

He began to sketch**. . . .**

The image of rough lines on parchment faded to reveal Dean on his hands and knees in a patch of dirt in the garden outside Shell Cottage, the sky to the west just beginning to show orange around the edges. Just then, Fleur Weasley appeared in the doorway, drying her hands on an apron around her waist. "Dean?" she called. She spotted him then, on his knees in the dirt, and hurried over with a slight frown. "Dean, you will ruin ze knees of zose trousers."

Dean gave a slight smile and sat back on his heels. "I'm just enjoying the feeling of being outside," he told her. "Not being hunted." But he stood and brushed off the worst of the dirt. "Thank you," he said to Fleur. "I know we're putting you in danger, being here." The smile she gave him was sad, but genuine. She looked strained.

"Ze way I see it," she said softly, "we are all in danger zese days. Ze least we can do eez 'elp one anuzzer. Come wash up. Dinner eez almost ready." He followed her into the kitchen and headed for the sink. She went to the stove top, swirling her wand at a steaming pan. Dean watched the path her wand took, regret and mild envy clear on his face.

Drying his hands on the hem of his shirt, he beheld his muddy knees. Turning to Fleur, he said, "I'm going to change before dinner," and headed for the living room to grab his other pair of trousers. He put a hand on the doorframe and swung through the open doorway, but what he saw stopped him in his tracks. "I— Luna."

She was standing by the desk, her back to the door, and in her hands, he noticed with a swallow, were the scraps of parchment he'd spent the last few days sketching on. She looked up and over her shoulder at the sound of his voice. "Did you draw these?" she asked.

"I— " He reached up to rub the back of his neck with his free hand, looking awkward. "Yeah," he said.

"I didn't know you'd ever seen a Blibbering Humdinger," she said, turning back to the drawings.

"I— haven't," he admitted. "I— heard you talking to Bill about them, and I— I like to draw," he finished with an embarrassed sort of shrug.

"Well, you're very good," she said, back still to him, and then, without warning, she turned on her heel, startling him. "I didn't mean to pry," she said to him. "I came looking for you and they were sitting out. I hope you don't mind." It took him a minute to shake his head.

"I don't," he said. She flashed him a smile, then looked down again at the drawings in her hand. He swallowed nervously as she moved the paper on the top of the stack to the bottom and froze, looking at the new sketch. She tilted her head slowly, studying it more intensely than she had any of the others.

"Is this . . ." she asked, her eyes flicking up to meet his, "me?" She held his gaze evenly, until eventually he swallowed and looked away, nodding, his hand once more at the back of his neck.

"Yeah," he said quietly, and it was almost an apology. When he looked back at her, her attention was once more fixed on the paper, and as he watched, a smile spread slowly across her face. She replaced the stack carefully on the desk behind her, then turned back to him.

"Thank you, Dean Thomas," she said softly, then left the room. He watched her go, and couldn't keep a soft, if bemused, smile from his own face**. . . . **

When the next scene resolved itself, a heavy drizzle was falling on Shell Cottage. Dean was curled up on the sofa in the living room, a pencil sitting idly in his hand while Fleur looked out the kitchen window in some concern. "She should be back by now," she said in a worried tone to her husband. Bill stood, folding his newspaper and laying it on the kitchen table. "She should not be out in zis rain," she clarified.

"Luna will be fine, I'm sure," Bill reassured her, crossing to his wife and kissing her cheek. "But I can go call her in, if you'd like."

"I'll do it," Dean called to them, sitting up quickly. "Really, I don't mind," he said, bounding past them, out the door before Fleur could voice a protest.

As he strode out past the garden gate and toward the trees nearby, he seemed not even to notice the rain gradually soaking his clothes and hair.

He slowed when he saw her, a tiny form framed against the trees, eyes closed and head back, a pile of deadwood at her feet. He took a moment just to watch her, then opened his mouth to speak.

"Hello, Dean," she said before he could get a sound out, eyes still closed. He peered at her.

"You heard me?" he asked. She opened her eyes then and beheld him calmly.

"You make about as much noise as an approaching Skitnie."

"I'll . . . try to work on that," he said after a pause. Luna smiled.

"It's a good thing," she assured him. "Skitnies are very quiet creatures. I've learned to listen for them because if they catch you unaware, they'll come at you from behind and burrow into your ear. Then they'll begin to sing the most beautiful music ever heard."

"Well," said Dean with a shrug. "That doesn't sound so bad."

"After three days the music lures you to the nearest nest where the entire Skitnie colony will burrow into every orifice and devour you from the inside out," she told him.

"Oh," Dean said. "Never mind then."

"Luckily for us," Luna said with a smile, "the Skitnie is terrified of the human face. Turn when it's behind you, and you're safe. Most people keep themselves safe from Skitnie attack without ever knowing they're in danger. You've probably done it yourself."

"Ah," Dean said, nodding slowly.

"But I don't think we're in any danger here," she said. "I think, if there were any Skitnies here, we'll have scared them off." Dean smiled.

"Well, we _are_ in danger of catching cold from all this rain, or at least so Fleur worries," he told her. She gave a serious nod.

"I was supposed to be gathering firewood," she said, bending to gather the deadwood at her feet. "But I thought for certain I heard the call of a Snorkack, and I had to stop and listen for it."

"Of course," Dean said with another smile, kneeling to help her pick up the wood. She gave him a penetrating stare. It lasted just long enough to be uncomfortable, then they stood and walked together back toward the cottage.

"You can say it, you know," Luna said, looking at him sidelong. "It's not like I haven't heard it before."

Dean frowned, puzzled. "Say what?" he asked.

"That I'm odd," she said simply. Dean stopped walking.

"You're not odd," he said immediately. Luna stopped walking as well, a few paces beyond him, and turned slowly, her face unreadable. He looked down briefly after his outburst, but his look softened as he raised his eyes to meet her gaze. "You're not odd," he said again. "You're just . . . different."

It was clearly not what she had expected. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it and looked down, blushing the tiniest bit. "Thank you for that," she said very softly to the ground.

Dean shifted awkwardly on his feet, searching for some new thread of conversation. "So, uh . . . you mentioned the call of a Snorkack? They have a distinctive sound, then?"

She seemed almost to light up at the question, and a description of the elusive Crumple-Horned Snorkack carried them all the way back to the cottage**. . . .**

The rainy afternoon faded away to reveal Dean perched on top of the fence that wound around the back yard, watching Luna gloomily as she flitted around with her new wand, turning daisies into butterflies and forming nets of crystal-clear ice in the air above her head while Bill and Fleur turned a blind eye to the underage magic.

He watched her with a sigh, and after a few moments, she noticed him sitting there. With a small smile, she tucked her new wand behind her ear and flitted across the yard to perch next to him on the fence. "I'm sorry Mr. Ollivander couldn't send you a new wand, too," she started to say, but Dean shook his head.

"He had no reason to," he said. "It's not like I kept him alive in a dungeon for three months." They sat in silence for a long while then, Luna with her eyes closed and her face turned toward the sun, Dean with his elbows braced on his thighs as he stared down at his hands, idle in his lap. As the time wore on, he snuck glances at her, glances that turned into gazes as he found himself unable to look away. Then he sighed and looked to the ground once more. Finally, he spoke.

"It is hard for me to be here, sometimes," he said very softly. Slowly, she opened her eyes and turned her head to look at him patiently. "Because of Ginny," he added. "I've tried to stay out of Harry and Ron's way, which isn't hard. They're always shut up somewhere with Hermione, but still, I look around and everything I see reminds me of her in ways I haven't had to think about since I went on the run. It's just . . . she was the first girl I ever loved, you know?" He shrugged awkwardly, looking out toward the forest, very staunchly not looking at Luna. "Even though I— part of me always knew it was Harry. Even when she didn't. But I— " He shook his head with a bitter laugh. "I tricked myself into thinking it could be more. I even— at one point I even tricked myself into thinking it might be forever. Stupid, I know." He fell silent then.

"Having hope is never stupid, Dean," she said softly, looking not at him any longer, but out and beyond. "And knowing love is never something we should regret. People don't marry their first loves, not always, but that doesn't mean we can't be grateful to them for allowing us to love them. In loving someone, we allow ourselves to hope and dream for a better future, and that is never something to be ashamed of." Dean smiled sadly and ducked his head.

"You speak from personal experience, I suppose," he said, but she shook her head.

"No," she said simply. "I haven't been that lucky." Dean turned to look at her then.

"Why not?" he asked honestly. She glanced at him before looking away, smiling slightly.

"Most boys aren't like you, Dean," she said. "Most do think I'm odd."

His eyes dropped to her hand where it rested on the fence between them, and, without hesitation, he reached over and covered it with his. She looked to his hand, and then his face, and he said, "I'm sorry for that." She held his gaze for a long moment then, her eyes searching his, maybe to see if he was in earnest. Then she looked down.

"Do you still love her?" she asked quietly.

Dean took a deep breath before he answered, then shook his head. "No. Not anymore. It took a long time, but . . ." He sighed. "I hope she and Harry survive this," he said honestly. "And I hope they can be happy." Then he squeezed her hand. "I . . . hope that for you, too," he said, a little awkwardly.

Luna cheeks became a little pinker at that, and she looked a little flustered for a moment, but she regained her composure quickly, smiling at him.. Suddenly, she gasped, focusing on something over his shoulder, her hand tightening around his.

"Dean," she said in a very soft voice. "Don't move. Remain as still as you can, but look with only your eyes to your right. Just at the level of the treeline in the distance."

Bewildered, he did as she said, and then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a small winged figure, bright blue, hovering in the air. With a gasp of his own, forgetting Luna's instructions, he turned his head sharply to the side to get a batter look, but it was gone. Looking back at her in shock, he asked, "What was that?" not even noticing that he had grasped her hand in the process.

"You saw it then?" she asked. He nodded, disbelieving. She grinned. "It was a Humdinger," she told him, her voice trembling with excitement. "I've never seen one so close, nor so vivid!" Still in awe, he turned to scan the air above him again, but the creature was gone.

His focus still on the patch of air where the Humdinger had hovered, Dean's face changed from awe to something altogether more serious. The smile fell away and a line appeared more prominently between his eyebrows. Almost nervously, he dropped his head, giving Luna only sideways glances. Clearly wanting to say something but not able to find the words, he swallowed and looked away, suddenly tense.

Luna missed none of it. "What is it?" she asked him, looking at him with concern. He shook his head and kept looking away. "Dean," she said, reaching over so his hand was in both of hers. He looked at their joined hands for a long moment, then gently slipped his from her grasp, flexing his fingers unconsciously. Luna waited, and soon enough, Dean spoke.

"Luna, can you— can you see things no one else can?"

She considered the question. "Only what no one else bothers to look for," she said finally. Dean gave a tight little laugh.

"Is there— is there a way to see— a way to look at a person and know— " Abruptly, he stopped talking and pushed away from the fence. He looked angry. "It's too quiet here. There's too much time to think," he mumbled darkly. "And you're too damn easy to talk to." And he strode away across the yard and into the house, leaving her behind, watching his retreat with a worried frown**. . . . **

The scene shifted to reveal Dean seated on his makeshift bed, paper and pen in hand, drawing angrily, scowling at his work. A man's face appeared on the parchment, line by line, and Dean was so caught up in the strokes of his quill that he didn't realize he wasn't alone in the room until the face was almost complete. He glanced up by chance and saw Luna in the doorway, watching him quietly. His hand faltered and he looked down, almost guilty, before determinedly returning to his work.

"Are you all right?" she asked quietly. Dean sighed and lowered the paper, looking decidedly guilty now.

"Yeah, I just— I'm sorry, Luna," he said. "I shouldn't have snapped, I just . . . realized I was telling you things I've never told anyone, not even Seamus, and he's my best mate. It . . ." He trailed off, not knowing how to finish.

"Scared you," Luna supplied, coming over to the sofa.

"Yeah," he said quietly.

She sat next to him in silence for a moment or two, and then she said, "I can try to be harder to talk to, if you think it would be help." The offer was completely sincere, and it made Dean laugh a little, which seemed to help.

"No," he said with a wave of his hand. Then he sighed and rubbed his face. "It's just, there were certain things I thought I could be sure of, you know? Things I never had to worry about understanding. And then, to find out that I was wrong— it's hard enough trying to rebuild my world to fit _this_ reality in," he said roughly, gesturing around him. "And then to find out that the one part I always thought was safe— " He broke off abruptly with a glance to Luna, who was listening silently and patiently. "And here I am, telling all this to the one person who will never be plagued with this problem," he murmured.

Luna did nothing more than sit a little straighter, tilt her head slightly, and give the tiniest of frowns, but it was clear he'd said something that struck her. "You think not?" she asked quietly.

"Luna, you're absolutely resilient in your beliefs; the entire world could be shouting against you, and I don't think you'd even hear them!" Dean said, looking toward the window rather than at her. "Your belief system doesn't depend on the number of people who agree with you, and I envy you that. You just believe what you believe; you don't have to rework your reality to make it fit."

"You're wrong," she said softly, an unfamiliar edge in her voice that made Dean sit up and pay attention. "Yes, I can sit here right now and tell you that no matter what proof you try to offer me, I will continue to believe that Nargles exists, undocumented, somewhere in the world, even though I've never seen them. But a month ago, I would have told you with equal certainty that my father would never print something that he didn't believe to be true, and that he would die rather than give in to the demands of those working to tear this world apart." She looked away then, and said the next to the wall. "Five days after I was captured, my father sold out Harry and Ron and Hermione to the Death Eaters because he thought it would make them give me back. Hermione told me. And she may not recognize a Snorkack horn when she sees one, but I have to believe her about this."

Dean looked at the floor, slightly embarrassed. "He did it because he loves you," Dean said softly. "Because he didn't want you to be hurt."

"He should have trusted me!" Dean looked at her, startled by an outburst counter to everything he thought he knew about her. She regained her composure quickly, but she refused to look at him. "Sometimes," she said, quieter, "there are things more important than the people we care about, and he should have trusted that I was strong enough to be all right." She took a deep breath and then continued. "I never thought he would do it, and he shouldn't have, and I have to look at him differently now. You think I don't understand what it's like to have your world turned on its head?"

Dean was silent for a long time. "My father isn't my father," he finally said. "I've grown up thinking he was, but my mum told me the truth before I left. He's my stepfather. My father walked out on us when I was two. I never knew. I've grown up thinking I was a Muggleborn, and a stranger one than most because I have three sisters and a brother, two of whom are past eleven, none of whom have ever done the things I did. I've grown up thinking I was a Muggleborn, but what if I'm not? What if my father was a wizard and my mum just never knew? While I was on the run, I managed to put it out of my head, but since we've been here, I've been thinking about it and thinking about it, and I feel like I don't know who I am anymore."

"You're Dean Thomas," Luna said. "You're a wizard." She looked at him. "How does knowing who your father was change that?" Dean had no answer.

"I guess it doesn't," he answered eventually, very quietly. "It just feels like it should." There was a long pause, then, "That's why we're fighting, isn't it?" Luna nodded.

"Yes," she said. "That's why we're fighting."

He reached over and found her hand, and they sat together silently in the growing darkness**. . . . **

The next scene faded in to show Dean asleep on the sofa while Fleur and Bill spoke in hushed, anxious whispers in the kitchen. Slowly, Dean woke, a frown on his face as he overheard snatches of conversation. He stood and approached the kitchen, unnoticed by Bill or Fleur.

"It eez not safe!" Fleur was insisting.

"I don't like it anymore than you do, but if Harry has a mission– "

"'E eez your _bruzzer_, Bill!"

"And after what happened in December, you can't expect him to leave Harry behind again," Bill pointed out. "He's of age; they all are, and I can't make their choices for them." Fleur's responded with an angry stream of French

Hesitantly, Dean took another step toward the kitchen. This time, Bill saw him, and a light tough on Fleur's shoulder alerted her to his presence. Abruptly, she fell silent and turned to the sink. Bill sighed, his face drawn.

"What's going on?" Dean asked quietly. Bill came to him and answered in a low voice.

"Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Griphook left earlier this morning. Fleur's worried. Hell, _I'm_ worried," he admitted, rubbing a hand over his face. "But I can't say I haven't been expecting it. I just hope they know what they're doing." Dean nodded. He scanned the small room then, his brow furrowed.

"Where's Luna?" he asked.

"She just stepped outside," Bill said, glancing toward the window, then frowning. Dean followed his line of vision, but Luna was nowhere in sight. Bill sighed. He looked old.

"I'll go find her," Dean offered quietly, and Bill's eyes showed his thanks.

The property belonging to Bill and Fleur that lay within the boundary wall wasn't large, so Dean's face registered a certain amount of concern when Luna wasn't immediately visible. He circled the small cottage, his eyes searching in every direction, but there was no sign of her. With a deep frown, Dean scanned the upper meadows, the forest, the shore line, two, three, four times, but each time came up empty. His frown deepening, he called her name and jogged in the direction of the water.

When he got to the spot where the grassy meadow became sheer rock and dropped off sharply to the water below, he stopped, scanning up and down the water line. "Luna!" he shouted again, but he was hardly able to hear himself over the angry roar of the waves.

Someone had long ago cut a series of shallow steps into the rock face leading to the rocky beach below, and Dean hurried down these now. He moved up the beach as swiftly as possible, slipping slightly on the wet rocks. He called her name as he went, the line between his eyes deepening with each call she didn't answer and each step that didn't bring her into view. When he had almost reached the boundary, he looked up and his breath caught in his throat, Luna's name dying on his lips as his eyes widened in fear.

Perhaps six or so meters in the air, jutting out beyond the rest of the cliff face, was a large rock, and perched on the very edge of that rock, bare toes gripping the rough surface, was Luna. Her face was turned to the cloudy sky, her arms spread wide as her long hair flew around her face. She looked positively rapturous.

"_Luna_!" Dean shouted. She opened her eyes and, seeing him, waved.

"Hello, Dean!" she called with a smile.

"What are you doing up there?" he demanded. She looked back to the sky.

"Trying to fly," she called. He could barely hear her.

"You have to come down!" he yelled. "It's not safe!" She shook her head.

"I'm safer up here than I've been in months," she told him in a louder voice.

"Luna, I'm not kidding. Come down!" he yelled, with another step toward the rock. "What if you fall?" She shook her head again.

"I won't fall," she assured him. "And even if I did, you'd catch me." He stared up at her.

"How do you know that?" he shouted, his voice breaking on the last word. His whole body was tense as he watched her, his eyes never leaving her form.

"I know you."

"No, you don't!" he screamed, and he didn't seem able to stop the words then, words underlined with panic and fear. "You don't know me, you don't know what I'd do, and you can't just put your life in danger on the off chance that someone might be around to save you! You can't _do_ it!"

He continued to shout, trying to convince her, and she watched him calmly. Then, just as calmly, she took one small step forward into thin air and plummeted toward the rocks below.

"_LUNA_!" he shouted in terror, pelting forward before he'd had time to think about moving.

He caught her just before she hit the ground, his knees buckling with the force, their combined momentum pitching both of them forward onto the rocks, but she landed safely in his lap, his arms tight around her as he stared at her in horror. "See?" she said quietly. "I told you."

"Don't you _ever_ do that again!" he yelled, his eyes wild, shaking her slightly with every word. "You could have _died_!" With a slight frown, she glanced upward toward the rock she'd been standing on, considering.

"No, I don't think so," she told him.

"You could have been hurt," he said in a voice that shook. She shook her head and gave a slight smile.

"That's a poor reason for not trying to touch the sky," she said softly.

"No, you could have been _hurt_," he insisted, his voice now ragged. It caught her attention; she turned to search his face and saw his fear.

"Why does that frighten you so?" she asked in a low voice.

"I— " His voice caught in his throat, and he shut his eyes tight, shaking his head. "I don't know," he said in a choked voice. "I don't know." And then it wasn't just his head shaking, but his whole body, trembling.

"It's all right, Dean. I'm all right," Luna said gently, He buried his face in her neck and she held him close, stroking his back, trying to calm him. "Shhh. It's all right," she whispered.

They sat like that for a long time, until Dean's shaking all but stopped. He raised his head then, and Luna placed a hand on the side of his face, and then their eyes locked and everything seemed to freeze. The smile that had started to show on Luna's face disappeared, and Dean's breathing became more rapid. His gaze dropped to her mouth for a moment before he met her eyes again. Licking his lips unconsciously, he freed one arm and reached for her face, when a deep voice rang out, "Luna? Dean?"

Dean jerked his hand back abruptly and looked down. "Bill was looking for you," he said in a voice that was still a little ragged. "He'll be wondering where we are." Luna kept her gaze on him for another moment more, but he did not look up. She stood then, and walked back along the beach toward the stone stairs as if nothing had just happened.

Dean stood as well and watched her walk away. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying and failing to steady himself before he followed her**. . . . **

The beach faded away to reveal a darkened bedroom. Dean couldn't sleep. Restless and troubled, he tossed and turned in the unfamiliar bed in what had, up until yesterday, been Griphook's room. Finally, he turned onto his back and gave up even the pretense of sleep. Staring up at the ceiling, he was as still as he'd been since the night began.

Then, with an agitated sigh masked by the creaking of the ancient mattress, he got to his feet and headed swiftly for the door, pausing only to scoop up his T-shirt from a nearby chair. He pulled it over his head as he padded barefoot down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door.

The fierce wind hit him the minute he stepped outside, and he stilled and turned his face to it, breathing deeply, but even the cool air did nothing to soothe his agitation.

He kept moving, through the back gate and down toward the sea, following the path he'd taken earlier that day, propelled by some need he didn't seem to fully understand. It wasn't until he reached the drop-off that he stopped, looking at it almost fearfully. Then he took a deep breath, set his shoulders, and, looking more determined, began to make his way toward the peak on which Luna had stood.

When he finally reached it, he took another deep breath and inched his way out onto it, slowly and carefully, until his bare toes brushed the edge and there was nothing but the crisp night air and the ocean in front of him. His breath coming more rapidly, he slowly opened his arms to the night sky.

His eyes fluttered shut as the wind began to tear at his clothes and body, doing its best to blow him off his feet, but he remained still except for his chest rapidly rising and falling as his deep breaths became more like sobs. Sea spray mingled with the tears on his face as he threw his head back to the sky.

He stood like that for some time until, suddenly, his eyes flew open and he turned to see her standing some distance behind him. Her pale nightdress and hair and skin all glowed in the moonlight and she looked almost ethereal as she stood there, silently watching him.

He didn't seem surprised to see her there. He simply stood, breathing hard, watching her watching him for another heartbeat or two, and then without hesitation, he moved, meeting her where the grass met the rocks, and he kissed her as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

He buried his hands in her hair, the darkness of his skin standing out in stark contrast to the paleness of her own. She pressed herself against him, trembling, her hands clutching at his shoulders. His arms wound around her, pulling her closer, his mouth never leaving hers. Her hands came up to touch his face and he angled their bodies to shelter her from the wind still pushing and pulling at every inch of them it could reach.

It wasn't until she dropped slightly that he realized she'd been on tiptoes, her feet as bare as his own. She looked up at him, and his breath seemed to catch in his throat. He reached up and cupped her face tenderly in both his hands before leaning down to kiss her again, long and sweet. Then she rested her face against his shoulder and let him hold her tight, his lips brushing the top of her head as they swayed gently together. And then she took a step back, her eyes locking with his as, smiling, she reached down and took him gently by the hand**. . . .**

When the scene resolved itself once more, it was not Dean's memory, but Luna's. Frantic and fearful, she hurried through the ruined halls of Hogwarts, skirting around piles of rubble and dodging injured classmates without really seeing them. Eyes constantly moving, she searched the damaged halls and corridors without success.

"Dean!" she called at every opening. "Dean!" She received no response, except for sorry shakes of heads from those she passed, indicating either that they hadn't seen him or that they didn't know who she was looking for. Each negative response heightened her worry and hurried her steps. "Dean!" she called louder and more urgently, until his name became a cry of desperation. "_Dean!_"

Finally, a low moan answered her cries, and she whirled, frantically searching every inch of the decimated corridor for some sign of him.

She found him pinned under a collapsed section of wall, nothing below his torso visible beneath the rubble. "Dean!" she cried. She ran to him and dropped to her knees beside him, her wide eyes taking in the wreckage that trapped him, the deep gash across his forehead, and the trickle of blood seeping out from underneath his body. With hands that trembled, she reached for his wrist and felt for a pulse. Then his eyes fluttered open and his hand tightened around hers.

"Luna," he croaked. She bit her lip and tried to smile without success.

"It's all right," she whispered, a waver in her voice. "We have an hour's respite. I'll— I'll find someone to help move all this rock and— " She faltered as he shook his head.

"You move any of this rock, and the whole wall'll come down," he rasped.

"We'll get you out," she tried to reassure him.

"You believe that?" he forced out.

"_Yes_," she whispered with fierce conviction. Then she squeezed his hand. "You just hang on," she said, trying to rise. "I'll go get some help— "

"Luna, don't," he said tightening his hold on her hand and pulling her gently back down beside him. "It's too late." Fear lined every inch of her face for a moment, but then her look hardened.

"_No_," she said fiercely, and her voice was thick with emotion. "You're going to be _fine_," she whispered. "You just have to— "

"Believe?" he broke in with an attempt at a smile. He shook his head. "No, Luna. Not even you can believe me out of this one." She started shaking her head then, and couldn't stop. "It's all right," he said gently, trying to calm her. "I don't feel it. There's no pain. I just don't want to be alone when I die."

Luna shook her head more violently, her eyes filling with tears. "You're _not_ going to die," she whispered almost frantically.

"I'm dying already," was all he said. Luna's chin trembled and she had to look away.

"No," she whispered again, but it was weaker than it had been before. She raised her head and looked frantically around the corridor. "I just need— I need to find— "

"I'm not afraid," Dean said urgently, tears shining in his own eyes. With a gentle squeeze of her hand, he forced her to look at him. "I'm not afraid to die. I have loved, and I have been loved. I have stood by my friends and fought for what is right. I have seen and believed in impossible things, and you're the reason for all of that, Luna. Because I've known you and loved you, I haven't wasted my life. And that's enough for me. My only regret is not seeing you sooner, and not having more time." A single tear fell down her cheek as she bit back a sob at his words. "Don't cry," he said softly, reaching up to brush the tear away. "Not over me. Be happy, Luna." She glared at him through her tears.

"You are the second person I have loved who has died in my arms and told me to be happy without you," she whispered harshly, angry.

"Then you already know that you can," he said in a voice heavy with regret, pain and sorrow lining his face.

She closed her eyes against his words, her face crumpling. "Please don't go," she pleaded. "Please, Dean. I can't lose you, not when I've finally found you. Please." A sob escaped on the last word. "I need you," she whispered desperately. Dean shook his head gently.

"No," he said. "If anything, I'm the one who needed you. You're more than strong enough to go on with me. Just keep living to the next moment."

"We were supposed to have forever," she whispered.

"People don't marry their first loves, remember?" he said quietly. "You'll love again, Luna. We'll win this war, and you'll love again."

"How do you know that?" she asked him. He smiled, looking up at her.

"I know you," he said simply. Then the smile fell from his face and he closed his eyes, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Let me go, Luna," he said weakly, pleading. "Please." She hesitated. "_Please_," he choked out, clutching at her hand, his eyes locking with her own. His were full of desperation, pleading, and, despite his earlier words, pain.

She bit the inside of her lip to hold back a sob, her face lined with anguish and pain that aged her far beyond her years. With one hand, she reached out and traced the lines of his face, as if committing them all to memory. Then she leaned down and kissed him gently, though it seemed to be the hardest thing she'd ever had to do. His eyes closed with her kiss, then flickered open to meet her gaze, a peace and calm in them that hadn't been there before.

"Thank you," he said, so softly she barely caught the words. Then he fumbled for a moment with his free hand before pressing a vial into her palm. "Here," he said faintly. "So you won't forget me."

"I could never forget you," she whispered through her tears. He smiled.

"That's all I needed," he whispered, relaxing. "Live on, Luna," he said with a sigh, his eyes falling shut. "Live on." His chest fell then and did not rise again, and his hand went limp in hers.

Her sobs came in full force then, shuddering violently through her, but after the first, she dropped his hand to press both fists tight against her mouth, her eyes squeezed closed as she rocked back and forth on her knees. She refused to let another escape her.

By and by, she regained control, though she trembled still and her breath came in shuddering gasps, and, as she leaned forward, three tears dropped from her eyelashes to his body below.

But in time, no more tears came. In time, she lowered her hands and breathed quietly. With only a slight tremor, she tucked his vial deep in her pocket. Then she reached down and gently folded his hands across his chest, her fingers lingering on his for only a moment.

Then, slowly but fluidly, she stood, picking up her wand from where it had clattered to the floor. She settled it in her hand, and, with a deep breath, turned away from where his body lay. And, with her shoulders back and her head held high, she walked away toward the Great Hall, and didn't look back. . . .

000

When the memories fade and she opens her eyes, her cheeks are wet with tears, but she is so used to that by now that she hardly notices. A gentle wave of her wand sends the precious memories back into their vial; a second wave Vanishes the bowl.

Slowly, she read the words on the gravestone once more, and she smiles. _Vita perseverat_. Life continues.

And so it has. Her life is rich and full and happy. Her sons grow bigger and more like themselves every day, and she and her husband travel the world in search of the creatures that brought them together in the first place. Most days, she is perfectly happy. Most days she lives her life without a second thought for the glass vial that lives in the jewelry box on her dresser.

But once a year, she takes the vial out and slips it around her neck. Once a year, she visits this graveyard and this grave. Once a year, she lets herself remember.

She remembers his voice and his face and his eyes. She remembers the feeling of his lips on hers, his hands in her hair, his arms wrapped tight around her body. She remembers a living room, a fence post, a rocky beach, an open meadow. Once a year, she watches the memories he entrusted to her so long ago, and she relives those short few weeks of her life, when she and a boy still waiting to become himself were thrown together and beat the odds and fought a war and fell in love.

Once a year, she sits in front of a gray granite stone and lets herself remember and regret and dream of how it might all have been different. And she leans forward and lets three tears fall on his grave, just where the stone meets the grass, and she whispers, "Until next year, Dean."

Then she stands and lets the gentle breeze dry her face. She settles her wand in her hand, and she walks to the end of the lane where her boys wait, and she doesn't look back. She smiles her thanks at her husband, and they share one long look of understanding and love before she takes her children's hands and walks out of the graveyard with her family.

And she lives on.

_Fin_

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